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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24171097">Alive</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandGrey/pseuds/BlackandGrey'>BlackandGrey</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Addiction, Angst, Drarry, Good Draco Malfoy, Good Lucius Malfoy, Intimacy, Love, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Philosophy, Pining, Slash, deep</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:08:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,326</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24171097</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandGrey/pseuds/BlackandGrey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Human yet aloof, Draco Malfoy finds himself torn between love and duty.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Alive</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>  My father has told me that intimacy is the most deadly form of addiction. I’m not entirely sure how accurate this is and he’s never given the most accommodating advice but I do know that he means well. I’ve heard many things about my father over the years- that he’s cruel, a liar, selfish. And maybe they’re right, but from my observation, I’ve always thought he’s more misunderstood than evil. He’s not cruel, but devoted; a vessel of ruthlessness and love enough to oppose his enemies, law and own morality to protect what belongs to him. He’s not a liar, but a poet; unravelling and re-stitching events of the past from dull and meaningless into something beautiful and even if his version of events is tied more to the present than the past, who’s to say that his isn’t a more accurate version of reality? He’s not selfish, he’s afraid- for me, my mother, for the world he belongs to and I have often wondered why what is seen as strength in most is seen as only weakness in him: the willingness to survive.</p>
<p>  My father has often told me that intimacy is the most deadly form of addiction. I’m not entirely sure how accurate this is but I <em>am</em> sure that he believed it. Everyone is made of a name not their own, everyone has their own unreadable truth. Few people were able to get close enough to my father to see beyond the icy shell he attires, but those that he has let in know that he is not as detached as he would lead them to believe. My mother for one, is one of the only people that knows his truth. When I was younger I was afraid of my father, I remember sitting in my mother’s lap and running my fingers through her silky hair, feeling her skin and asking how she could be so warm when he was so cold. She just laughed and tucked my hair behind my ears. “Your father isn’t cold, Draco” she told me “or even indifferent- he cares, deeply, too much for this world.” I didn’t understand what she meant at first but when his mark began to darken I touched his arm and it burned hotter than I imagine the sun and his tears were as warm as anybody else’s. I knew then that he was not filled with ice but flame. She also told me that loving my father is easy, but the hard part is making him let you. When he loves, he loves entirely and with every burning cell so that to lose you would be inconceivable. A loss of a piece of himself.</p>
<p>  But I don’t think she fully comprehended what I was asking. I have never doubted that my father loves me or even considered him indifferent although he’s never spoken the words and I know most would believe that he is incapable of love. What I didn’t grasp was why his passion and anger and fire were masked so completely when my mother wore hers like delicate jewellery, reflected in her eyes. As I’ve grown older, I have become more like him, I think and I am of the few that see the fear he wears like a funeral veil. It has covered him head to toe for so many years that it has penetrated the deepest recesses of his heart. Sometimes I look in his eyes and I see a clawing emptiness. I recognise it in myself and I know that it was planted long ago with ambition, darkness, the promise of power. I often wish that my mother was enough to fill him, but I have come to realise that probably nothing is.</p>
<p>  My father tells me that intimacy is the most deadly form of addiction. I’m still not entirely sure how true this is, but I’m finding myself more and more inclined to agree. I wonder what he would think if he knew how severely I had spurned his advice, even unintentionally. If he knew the ways I had chosen to seal that emptiness clawing inside my heart. If he knew that green eyes filled my ambition where there should be stars.</p>
<p>  I doubt that I’m the first to mistake intimacy for obsession but nevertheless I’m finding it increasingly difficult to draw the line between dependency and addiction. Dependent is defined as “contingent on or determined by”. When I reflect on my dependency, I characterise it for the effect it has on every action and decision I make. When I contemplate my addiction, I think about the desperation.</p>
<p>  I have been staring at Harry for too long today. But then again, I stare at him for too long every day, watching shadows steal across his face and sentiment colour his eyes; I could dissect each one for hours on end. I have become a slave to my own compulsion, each heart beat a spear of lightning counting down until the moment I must tear my eyes away. Often I half hope that he’ll catch me staring, that he’ll meet my eyes with his own and maybe smile like he understands. Sometimes I hope that his gaze will darken, that he’ll confront me, let me feel his fists against my skin and die beneath those scorching emeralds.</p>
<p>  He never does though, catch me I mean. If he happens to glance in my direction I look away and after years of practice I’ve become an expert.</p>
<p>  My father reminds me that intimacy is the most deadly form of addiction. I’ve been pondering his words for so long now that they’re starting to lose all meaning, like nursery rhymes or when you stare at the sun and everything seems to blur into nonexistence. In some ways we are exactly the same, my father and me, and in others total opposites. Take our childhoods for example, both raised in illusions of grandeur and then shunted into the shadows of true greatness. The only difference is that he walked willingly into the dark and I have been pulled alongside him. Then again, neither of us have ever been on the winning team and my days are starting to drift, blackening the colours of my mind. The light is starting to seem tainted, the darkness pure. After all, who knew emeralds could gleam so cruel? Who knew that humanity could pierce so deep? Who knew the light could burn so harsh? I accepted a long time ago that beautiful things can only be seen from afar, but that’s never stopped me from gazing into space, across a crowed hall or the distance of a dream. It’s never stopped me from longing for things I know I’ll never have…</p>
<p>Friendship devoid of ambition, patience without expectation of a gain, sincerity without ransom. My footsteps are growing heavier each day I shoulder the weight of my father's legacy, every footprint tracing deeper marks. I have worn the mask for so long now that I've lost all comprehension of the life I could have led, of what I could have had, what I could have been. Never cracking, never faltering, playing my part until the bitter end. Maybe things could've been different, maybe I could've built my thrones from gold instead of silver, maybe if I had taken my own path, chosen to fight tooth and nail against destiny. Maybe, but what's the use in fighting just to be the smallest fraction closer, staring through an empty space strung with just a little less hostility. Maybes are pointless in the end. </p>
<p>  My father used to say that intimacy is the most deadly form of addiction. Even as I stare into green pools laced with the kindest type of poison, his words still echo through my ears, tearing through flesh and shivering through my bones. All that's left is to carry on, cold and cruel and unharmed. Still my father's son, still a Malfoy, still alive.</p>
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